They are dainty boots—­quite those of a stylish young lady; rows of little buttons shine on them.

“Not a single button missing,” he whispers to me, and there is pride in his tone.

He is no longer sleepy; he yawns no more.  On the contrary, his lips are tightly closed; a gleam of youth and spring-time lights up his face; and he who was on the point of going to sleep seems just to have woke up.

And where the polish has bestowed a beautiful black his fingers move over the body of the boot, which opens widely in the upper part and betrays—­ever such a little—­the lower curves of the leg.  His fingers, so skilled in polishing, are rather awkward all the same as they turn the boots over and turn them again, as he smiles at them and ponders—­profoundly and afar—­while the old woman lifts her arms in the air and calls me to witness “What a very kind soldier!” he is.

It is finished.  The boots are cleaned and finished off in style; they are like mirrors.  Nothing is left to do.

He puts them on the edge of the table, very carefully, as if they were saintly relics; then at last his hands let them go.  But his eyes do not at once leave them.  He looks at them, and then lowering his head, he looks at his own boots.  I remember that while he made this comparison the great lad—­a hero by destiny, a Bohemian, a monk—­smiled once more with all his heart.

The old woman was showing signs of activity in the depths of her chair; she had an idea.  “I’ll tell her!  She shall thank you herself, monsieur!  Hey, Josephine!” she cried, turning towards a door.

But Paradis stopped her with an expansive gesture which I thought magnificent.  “No, it’s not worth while, gran’ma; leave her where she is.  We’re going.  We won’t trouble her, allez!”

Such decision sounded in his voice that it carried authority, and the old woman obediently sank into inactivity and held her peace.

We went away to our bed under the wall-less roof, between the arms of the plow that was waiting for us.  And then Paradis began again to yawn; but by the light of the candle in our crib, a full minute later, I saw that the happy smile remained yet on his face.

17

In the Sap

In the excitement of a distribution of letters from which the squad were returning—­some with the delight of a letter, some with the semi-delight of a postcard, and others with a new load (speedily reassumed) of expectation and hope—­a comrade comes with a brandished newspaper to tell us an amazing story—­“Tu sais, the weasel-faced ancient at Gauchin?”

“The old boy who was treasure-seeking?”

“Well, he’s found it!”

“Gerraway!”

“It’s just as I tell you, you great lump!  What would you like me to say to you?  Mass?  Don’t know it.  Anyway, the yard of his place has been bombed, and a chest full of money was turned up out of the ground near a wall.  He got his treasure full on the back.  And now the parson’s quietly cut in and talks about claiming credit for the miracle”